


l'enfer est plein de bonnes volontés

by Falcine



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, M/M, hamlet sr. and claudius are both terrible father figures in different ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falcine/pseuds/Falcine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Hamlet survives the last duel. </p><p>An addendum: he wishes he didn't</p>
            </blockquote>





	l'enfer est plein de bonnes volontés

 

Sometimes, Horatio wonders what would’ve happened if they’d both made it this far.

* * *

 

**before**

_The first time Horatio met Hamlet’s dad, he was frightened to the bone._

_“Where are you from, boy?” he barked at Horatio, and being too frightened to think probably, Horatio promptly replied with his actual address._

_Probably a mistake, considering he lived on the shady side of town in a shitty little townhouse, but Hamlet hadn’t even known that. Hamlet’s father’d given Horatio a marked frown._

_“You should spend more time with Laertes and his friends,” Hamlet Sr. said._

_Hamlet’s eyes had widened, and he’d looked down, biting his lip. He looked utterly dejected in that moment, and Horatio felt the hot anger of being looked down on and indignation at how Hamlet didn’t try and fight back course through his veins. He lifted his chin defiantly and dragged Hamlet away, shouting a “Nice to meet you, sir,” behind him as sincerely as he could muster._

_“Your dad’s kind of an asshole,” he said to Hamlet when they’d gotten a safe distance away._

_Hamlet had looked at him with heartbreakingly dull eyes--Hamlet who shone when he spoke and seemed so much larger than life when he talked about the words he loved. “Yeah.”_

* * *

 

It starts mostly as a joke.

Hamlet never sleeps properly, and even though the beds are too small, Horatio lets him squeeze in beside him and the blank dorm wall on his side whenever he wants. There’re too many cluttered posters crowding the space on Hamlet’s side of the room.

Those late nights when Hamlet can’t sleep and they press up against each other in the dark, nothing much happens. Besides the discovery that Hamlet likes to hog the sheets, of course. Horatio wonders if this is just the kind of friend he is--content to be there and nothing else, content to listen.

So when Hamlet steps over him again to squeeze under the blankets, Horatio doesn’t say anything, only shifts and turns away to show Hamlet he’s awake.

“I found a spider in my bed,” Hamlet whispers, a hint of a whine in his voice.

“So kill it,” Horatio mutters.

Hamlet squirms, wrapping his thin fingers around Horatio’s wrist. “I hate spiders,” he grumbles.

“No,” Horatio retorts, grinning slightly even though it can’t be seen in the dark, “you’re just scared of them.”

Hamlet laughs, barely, more like an escape huff of breath. He turns around, the bony ridges of his spine poking Horatio in the hips. “I’m terrified,” he says, flatly. “Didn’t you know it?”

“I didn’t actually,” Horatio admits, fiddling with his fingers.

“That’s because I never told you.”

“Why?”  
  
“Maybe I was embarrassed.” Hamlet’s voice is quieter now, like he’s admitting something that’s too real. In the three years since Horatio’s known him, Hamlet’s only sounded like this when he’s telling him something important (--“I broke up with Ophelia”--“Sometimes I’m afraid of my father”--“My uncle’s been avoiding me lately and I don’t know what to do”--“help”--) but, now, Horatio wonders if maybe they’d ran out of secrets to share.

He doesn’t say anything, because he isn’t sure if Hamlet even knows the little tricks and tells of his own voice as well as Horatio does. “So you finally admit you’re human too,” he says instead, only half a joke.

Hamlet falls silent, and Horatio doesn’t push him for more answers. He might’ve hit a button, again, prodded against some half healed wound Hamlet never told him about. But that’s okay. They only need time.

The past three years, he’s felt like the proverbial blind man leading the blind. Hamlet’s all sunny smiles where sunshine doesn’t fit and ridiculously morbid jokes when nothing’s wrong. Horatio’s long since given up reading his moods, only knowing that he swings from high as a loon to sullen and quiet on a dime.

His job isn’t to understand why, only to sit there and either yank him back down to his seat when he’s making a scene in the middle of class or to hand him the glass bowl just so he can shatter something that’s not himself. Horatio isn’t a man of many words, and yet Hamlet’s always told him he knows exactly what to say.

(Exactly what to say in all the above scenarios: Nothing.)

He hesitates, not sure if he should speak up now, because Hamlet’s breathing has slowed and maybe he’ll actually fall asleep this once. Still, the grip on his arm is too tight to belong to someone about to sleep. Horatio tries to turn but finds himself tangled in the sheets, so he addresses the dark posters next to Hamlet’s bed instead.

“It’s okay to be human, you know?”   
  
Hamlet’s laughter is a short breath against Horatio’s neck.

“Tell that to my dad.”

The words hang in the air between them. Horatio’s heard this many times--the desperate “God, I’m so glad I’m away from him” that first escaped Hamlet’s lips when they were alone in the dorm--but it stills weighs on him, every time.

Sometimes, Horatio thinks that this is where most of Hamlet’s problems stem from, this steadfast refusal of his own humanity. It’s the moments of breathless wonder and childlike fear that his father has tried so hard to stamp away. Horatio thinks that Hamlet’s jagged edges are all trying to fit together, reconcile the ruthlessness he wants to embody for his father and the kindness he wishes sometimes to bestow on others.

He stifles a yawn, the heavy thoughts weighing him down in the darkness. “Your dad’s kind of an asshole,” he murmurs, pressing himself closer to his pillow.

There is, of course, no way he can see Hamlet’s face from here, but somehow Horatio knows there’s a sharp frown on his friend’s face from the way his voice sounds when he says, “Yeah.”

“Seriously,” Horatio says, thinking partly of the stern look on Hamlet Sr.’s face but mostly of the eagerness that always lie just beneath Hamlet’s upon seeing his father. They never meet eye to eye, but Hamlet’s lips are always twitching into a quick half smile, brilliant in the moment but decaying seconds later when when his father doesn’t return the expression. “Screw him.”

Hamlet snorts. “I wish.” He hums in the darkness, a soft murmur of concession. His next words come out too casual, as if he were trying to play them off as less of a deal than they were. “You know me and Laertes used to compete to get his approval. I’d always get the better marks, but Laertes was always the president of some business club or something. Dad loved that, never understood why I spent so much time in school instead of networking or whatever.”

The bed creaks when Hamlet turns around, his back turned and vulnerable. “When I told him I wasn’t even applying to Ivy League or anything he broke. Wouldn’t talk to me for a month. I think he only acknowledged me because it was way past the deadline and he knew he couldn’t do anything about it. Laertes got into Wharton and then the next day I told him I was coming here and, well…”

Hamlet’s laughter is bitter, but then again it always was. “Knocked me upside the head so hard I fucking saw stars.”

Screw the blankets. Horatio turns around fully now. “Seriously?”

Hamlet bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says, almost embarrassed. “He...he only really got that pissed once, though,” he says hurriedly, defensive even now. Horatio squeezes his hand into a fist, feeling the nails dig into his palm and he wants to yell himself hoarse at Hamlet Sr. because how could Hamlet still want to love him that much even after all that?

“God,” Horatio says, “fuck him.”

Silence.

“Yeah,” Hamlet says. “Yeah.”

Horatio wraps an arm around Hamlet’s shoulders, drawing in close. Here, he can feel the hard thud-thud of Hamlet’s heart. He’s never felt so close to Hamlet before. He wishes Hamlet could see the brilliance in his eyes when he spoke of the stars and gods, wishes Hamlet didn’t try so hard to be someone he wasn’t, hopes it isn’t too late. These days, Hamlet is sharper, brighter, yes, but harsher like fluorescent lights.

“I wished he was dead, once,” Hamlet concedes. “And then I felt horrible for thinking it. And now I miss him so much even though he probably hates me.”

This is usually the point where Horatio’s supposed to hand Hamlet a pillow, brace a hand on his shoulder, and sit back while Hamlet slams it against something that would make a satisfying enough thump. Horatio isn’t supposed to tell Hamlet what to do--he’s only supposed to support him in whatever he does want to do.

“The next time you see him, you should tell him how you feel,” he finds himself saying instead, even though he knows this is a monumentally bad idea.

“That’s a terrible idea.”   
  
“I know.”

Hamlet turns around and looks at Horatio with a tired mirth in his eyes. “Yeah, like I’ll tell my dad, _fuck you, Wittenberg’s great and I’m dropping out of law to study poetry_ , and then he’ll probably drag me behind the house to murder me so he can officially adopt Laertes or something.”

It’s not supposed to be funny--because Horatio isn’t quite sure if Hamlet’s joking or not--but then it is and they’re looking at each other and laughing at how awful everything is. Horatio holds his stomach and chokes on his silent laughter and hates how useless he feels.

“When’re you going home, winter break?” 

“Probably. That’s the one I can’t get out of.” Hamlet wrinkles his nose.

“Tell him then,” Horatio says, not really joking, but Hamlet laughs again anyways.   
  
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “It’ll be the best Christmas present I can give him. Congrats, dad, I’ll officially become a _total_ failure of a son!”

After that, when the winter break looms closer and closer, Horatio only has to ask Hamlet what he’s planning to get his dad for Christmas and the two of them break down into helpless laughter again. Horatio doesn’t quite know what Hamlet finds so funny about the situation but he’s long given up trying to understand his friend’s sense of humour. He just knows that he only laughs because punching a wall in public would be too conspicuous.

* * *

 

_The first time Horatio met Hamlet’s uncle, he was strangely enchanted._

_He’d finally agreed to go to Hamlet’s house when his father was out on a business trip, because no matter how much he loved Hamlet, he refused to acknowledge Hamlet Sr. more than what was strictly necessary. They’d spent nights out in the city, wandering, Hamlet’s eyes bright from the streetlights, and that was good enough for now._

_But that day, when Hamlet ran up the steps to his honest to god mansion, it was Claudius who’d opened the door._

_“You’re Hamlet’s best friend, then?” Claudius had said, a strange sort of sharp smile on his face. “Hamlet’s told me a lot about you.”_

_Hamlet threw a sidelong glance at his uncle, almost rolling his eyes, and Horatio was struck by the strange ease in how Hamlet carried himself then. Gone were the strained smile and the tense line of his shoulders that seemed ever present with his father in the room._

_“Yeah, I’m Horatio. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said, holding his hand out to shake. Claudius’s smile widened at Horatio’s words. His handshake was too firm._

_“We’re just going upstairs,” Hamlet said. “No old men allowed,” he said, teasing._

_“If you call me an old man again, I won’t go watch_ Faustus _with you next weekend,” Claudius said, sounding oddly sinister to Horatio, but Hamlet’s face broke out in a smile._

_“You’re terrible,” Hamlet deadpanned. “Whatever, we’re totally going to be all alone in the room, so not my fault if you walk in on something you don’t want to see.” He winked and grabbed Horatio’s hand, marching towards the stairs._

_Horatio remembered flushing, but it was too late to say anything. He also remembered the arched line of Claudius’s questioning eyebrow and feeling relieved that Hamlet had at least one authority figure he clearly respected in his life._

* * *

 

**during**

Hamlet doesn’t text him at all for the first week of break. Horatio sits alone in their empty dorm room because flying all the way across the country just to go home for two weeks wasn’t worth the plane tickets and he didn’t want to freeload a ride off Hamlet again. He imagines Hamlet calling his father out and the thought brings a smile to his face, even though he knows Hamlet probably hasn’t done anything.

Then, at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night, the string of texts come.

_he’s dead_

_fuck_

_im sorry i dont know who else to tell_

_he’s dead_

_horatio i need you_

_please_

Horatio stares at his phone, horrified.

The next day, he books a Greyhound ticket and leaves. The whole ride, he rests his head on the window and feels it shudder beneath his skull. His thoughts jostle around, worried, frantic, and all Horatio wants is to get to Elsinore, get to Hamlet, do whatever he can to help.

* * *

 

“It was Claudius.”

“Your _uncle_?”

“Adoptive father, now, apparently. God _dammit_ why didn’t anyone tell me until now?”   
  
“When did that happen?”   
  
“He died two months ago! A month after I left for university! Mom married Claudius _two days ago_! They had a fucking Christmas wedding!”

“Shit, that’s horrible.”

“...”

“...”

“...He left me a message, on this old USB from his office. They said he bequeathed it to me in his will or something and...and he said Claudius was trying to take control of the company for a long time...and he has enough shares to run it now...I…I never believed him when he said it before…”

“About Claudius?”   
  
“...yeah.”

“Are you sure he did it?”   
  
“ _I don’t know_. What the fuck am I supposed to do?” 

“Move on. You hated him, didn’t you?” 

 

* * *

 

Hamlet whirls around with a wild look in his eyes. “I loved him,” he murmurs, “and then I wanted him to die, and then he did,” he whispers, his hands fisting in his head.

“Fuck, no, Hamlet, it’s not your fault,” Horatio says, tightening his arms around Hamlet’s shoulders.

“He probably hated me,” Hamlet continues as if he hadn’t heard Horatio at all. “He probably wanted me to be Laertes and I _couldn’t_ and I was such a fucking disappointment. God.”

“It’s not your fault he wanted you to be someone you weren’t!” Horatio blurts out, the pent up frustration finally vocalized. “A good father encourages you! Wants to be a part of your interests! Does things like listen to your poetry readings or takes you to buy books when you want or--”

“--or goes to see plays with you when you want?” Hamlet cuts in tiredly. “Because you have to realize you’re describing Claudius right now, right?” His voice is sharp, but timid, like some part of him doesn’t want to believe what he’s saying.

Horatio stares, open mouthed, for a long time.

Then, “Yes,” he says, “Yes, Claudius was more of a father to you than your actual father ever was. And I don’t know if he, what, murdered your father for the company, but I do know that he cares about you, Hamlet.”

Hamlet squeezes his eyes shut, tight.

* * *

 

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“You don’t have to.” 

“I don’t know if I can trust him.”

“Trust your own instincts.”   
  
“I think I hate him. He tried to get me to go out with him yesterday, like there was nothing wrong at all.”   
  
“Just give it some time, Hamlet. Not everyone grieves the same way.”

“Does he even care?”

“He cares about you.” 

“He never cared about my father.”   
  
“Neither did I. Neither did you, not really.”   
  
“I love him. Loved him. Whatever.”   
  
“He was horrible to you.”

“I loved him too,” he says. “Claudius.”   
  
“Loved?”   
  
Hamlet only shakes his head, mouthing something Horatio can’t hear, and he’s never felt so utterly locked out of Hamlet’s life than this instance.

* * *

 

At the New Year’s celebration, Claudius draws his new wife in close and Hamlet tenses besides him.

Then, after the toast, Claudius looks over at them, only once. Horatio locks eyes with the other man--all sharp smiles and closed off expressions--and feels an unease settle in his stomach. Claudius does not look directly at Hamlet.

He turns and clasps Laertes on the back and asks, _what do you want, Laertes?_ and tells him he’ll send a car to drive him back to Wharton and Hamlet’s eyes grow wider and wider. _Blessing for the New Year’s, and your promising career, Laertes_ , Claudius says, _and remember, if you ever need anything from me, don’t even hesitate to ask._

Hamlet probably doesn’t see the little turns of Claudius’s head, like he means to look over at them and is stopping himself every time. Hamlet probably doesn’t see the way Laertes’s smile is too wide and unreal, the way he keeps fiddling with his fingers like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Hamlet probably only hears, _I’ll give you anything, Laertes,_ and only feels betrayal.

* * *

 

“I’m going to kill him,” Hamlet says.

“What?” Hamlet’s said things like that often, before, truth be told, but never with such conviction in his voice. He’s talked about cornering douchebags in his classes with a morbid twist of humour in his tone, talked about wishing his father were dead with quiet concession, even talked about falling to his own oblivion with too much truth in his voice. Never like this, though. Never so hard, so harsh, and in that instant, Horatio thinks Hamlet resembles his father the most.

“I’m going to kill Claudius, and I don’t want your help because I don’t want you to get involved.”

Hamlet slams the door behind him when he leaves.

* * *

 

The Hamlet who comes back from New Jersey is not the best friend Horatio knew before.

He’s too much of his father, and his once too-pale skin is darker, his smile cheerier and empty, like he spent too much time in the sun.

* * *

 

He shakes Laertes’s hand and Horatio thinks he sees Laertes wince.

* * *

 

**the after where everything went right**

When Claudius is dead and Hamlet stands ramrod straight, like boot camp stampeded the posture of a soldier in his very essence, Horatio wants to wraps his arms around Hamlet’s shoulders like old times. He wants to be back in their dorm in the dark again, nothing but Hamlet’s posters cluttering the space.

* * *

 

The act is deemed in self defense in the eyes of the court, and Horatio sags with relief.

Hamlet doesn’t say anything, only sets his mouth in a line.

That night, Hamlet doesn’t say a word. He sits down in the shitty chair the university provided and stares at the clutter of his desk--a desk he hasn’t touched since the break--and buries his head in his arms.

When Horatio touches his shoulder, Hamlet doesn’t respond, only reaches out with blank eyes and grabs the first book off the shelf sitting just above his desk. It’s the only part of his side of the room that isn’t horribly messy, the thin poem anthologies and annotated playbooks lined up neatly.

He takes _Faustus_ and rips it neatly down the middle, face impassive all the while.

Horatio falls back into his old role, tidying up around Hamlet, picking up the fallen pieces of his beloved books and putting them in a bag just in case. He doesn’t say anything either, knows this isn’t the time.

* * *

 

“I loved him,” Hamlet says, sometimes, sharp elbows forever stuck in Horatio’s side. Horatio doesn’t know if he’s talking about his father or Claudius or both or what.

He simply says, “I know.”

* * *

 

“If you really think that there are Oedipal undertones in the relationship between Faust and Mephistopheles, I can’t stop you, now can I? That doesn’t change the fact that I refuse to work with such a ridiculous idea,” Hamlet says scathingly.

“Look, I don’t care if you don’t agree, but I don’t see any counterarguments from you. Opinions are subjective, so you better back yours up and discuss this properly instead of simply insulting me,” his partner replies icily, narrowing his eyes.

Hamlet snorts. “Your subjective opinion is wrong,” he says, flippantly grabbing his bag. “If you refuse to see reason, I’ll just be on my way now.”

“Hamlet,” Horatio hisses. “This project is worth 30% of your final mark.”   
  
Hamlet sighs. “Does it look like I care?” he asks.

Horatio presses his lips together and looks back at Hamlet’s livid partner, still standing in the middle of the library.

* * *

 

He finds Hamlet rooting through the bag of ripped up playbooks in the middle of the night, working by the meager light of his phone. The failed assignment is sitting crumpled in a heap besides him.

Horatio’s heart breaks at the sight, but he doesn’t know what else he can do.

* * *

 

“I love him,” Hamlet says again, staring at his hands. The pathetic half taped together pieces are strewn to the side. Hamlet kneels on the ground, turning his face to the ceiling like he were searching for some meaning. “What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Horatio says.

They don’t sleep that night.

* * *

 

**the after where everything went wrong**

The forecast for Hamlet’s funeral calls for sun. Horatio had thought it was oddly appropriate, so when instead it starts to outright snow, he’s almost disappointed. The snow makes everything seem too peaceful, too calming, carrying the ambiance of the coming holidays in the air. He thinks Hamlet wouldn’t approve.

There’s something empty inside him, but Horatio’s felt that way for a long time now.

* * *

 

That night, in his empty dorm, the walls cleared and cleaned, rolls of posters stored safely in his closet, Horatio whispers Hamlet’s stories to the empty bed. He wonders who else will move in.

Something inside him breaks, but even through the desperate, silent tears, Horatio feels a stab of guilt at the closure threatening to settle over his shoulders like a shroud.

He hopes that Hamlet’s happy now, wherever, wishes he could’ve helped more, thinks about how it’s almost Christmas, and what a shitty present this day really was, in the end.


End file.
